Bound With Garlands
by TheCountessAndTheEnglishLord
Summary: Title from 'If By Dull Rhymes' by John Keats. A collection of vignettes spanning the lives of Robert and Cora Crawley - alone, together; sleeping, waking; meeting, departing.
1. Kick

_A/N: I'm not sure how long this series will be - possibly 20 chapters or more, but I am aiming to limit conversation and keep it just descriptive. All prompts are welcomed and wanted. Enjoy!_

 **PART ONE**

It was a kick. She couldn't be certain, but she felt it in her heart, if not in her stomach. Pressing a palm to the swelling skin, she smoothed her hand over the space where the motion had caught her attention. A smile slowly spread across her face and she moved the same hand to cover her husband's, who startled slightly at the impulsive contact. Glancing across he caught her eye, and she smiled again, deepening as it crept towards her ears. Gently scooping up his hand, she moved it to cover her skin, in the same place as she felt it. Whispering in his ear, he replied with a grin of his own, and he breathed out in a slow, calm way. Then he felt it, the impact on his hand making him jump. He chuckled, breathing out again. The kicks came in a succession, angry perhaps, and the two of them laughed admiringly. Their gazes locked again and they leant across, brushing their lips against one another. The kiss deepened as the afternoon air blew against their faces, catching them breathless. Then they locked lips once more, the intimacy palpable in the sweetness of the moment.


	2. First Time

A soft knock; she crosses to the door, slowly pulling back the handle. There he stands, beautiful, perfect, her Greek god. All words fall from her lips and she steps backwards, nervous in the moment. But his face is kind, and he moves towards her, allowing the door to slam shut like the dropping of a stone. Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her tenderly, relishing the taste of her mouth; a bee dipping in the flower to retrieve the pollen. But she is not easily taken and she swirls around, curling on the bed in seductive allure. Drawing him in. He steps forth and capitulates to her beauty. A mass of sheets, a soft moan from within his throat, her leg winding around his waist. Moment after moment, dropped like fragments of glass, floating as if on an ocean. They are bound together, fused by their intimacies, forming one being. Making love can no longer be defined by two words. It is a symphony. They dance along the notes; their crescendo heightening with their orgastic climax and their diminuendo diminishing with their satisfaction. No, you cannot say love is so easy to define. But it is a whole; a tangible, possible whole, that sleeps in their bed of passion.


	3. Lembourne Castle Gardens

Their hands meet among the daisies, the wind ruffling their hair. Fluffy, soft grey clouds hover above them, looming slightly ominously over the otherwise idyllic scene. A small smile spreads across his face as he rolls over, placing an arm around her shoulders. The lake glistens and shines, the highlight of today's outing to the newly opened castle and gardens in the South of England. Having departed to America along with Sybbie in January, Tom's last present to Cora and Robert was a fortnight together in the south, beginning with a privileged viewing of the castle's opening in mid June. Lembourne is beautiful; not detracting at all from the peaceful moments they have spent lying side by side in the flowers at the lake's edge; instead enhancing it. The best sight of all being his wife of over thirty years lying sprawled in the grass, white linen dress rumpled and slightly stained at the hem, and a blissful expression spread across her countenance. He kisses her; drinking in the delectable perfection of this very second; this heavenly second in their otherwise short lives.

* * *

 _Lembourne is a made up place, based on one of my favourite places in all the world._


	4. Of Kisses And Distractions

He picks up a pen and pulls the accounts books towards him, only to be obstructed by a porcelain hand that curves around his own, taking it to her lips and kissing it. He glances up, mischief glinting in his eye and she smiles secretly, rubbing her head against his palm, cat-like. A need forms in the pit of his stomach and he turns, pulling her onto his lap where she falls ungainly; both descending into laughter. Laughter that tinkles merrily like the pouring of champagne; clusters of stars twinkling in the galaxy. He kisses her sweetly, as if taking a moment to step back from his life and watch from afar. They share a clandestine look, and she moves to place her legs astride his waist. But he places a finger to her mouth, hushing her with the excuse of it being midday, the girls any arrive any moment. A sly look slowly spreads over her face and pressing her lips once again to his, she sweeps up and away, leaving him breathless and irrevocably distracted.


	5. Painful

Watching and waiting. That's all there really is. Her longing gaze with its attachment to the dark window. Her heart stutters, as if bound to fail. Little can shake her from her reverie. Hour after hour she stares blankly out towards the horizon, wishing that a figure could appear, and come to her; a promise, a twist of fate. Her love, her life. He is far and away beyond her. Crawling in the dusty terrains of war, gun melting in the heat. His perfect, sweet face marked from the pain and the mud.

Just like her really.

 _Ssh, don't be afraid._

Marked. Scarred. She looks down at her stomach.

Irredeemable.

Its swelling state both scares and amazes her.

Still.

 _Sssh, it's alright. Everthing will be alright._

It's as if the words are caught in her throat and she's hooking them out with a red hot poker.

Pain.

Pain and grief.

 _Close your eyes. Sssh, don't cry._

 _Don't cry, my darling._


	6. Newborn

_This is something I've wanted to try for a while now and I hope you like it._

* * *

"Just one more push, Lady Grantham –"

"I c-can't..."

"Yes you can, of course you can. Lord Grantham is just here, he can hold your hand."

"I don't think –"

"She needs you."

"Robert –"

"Yes, my darling?"

"It – it's so difficult..."

"Oh – oh...Cora, I – I can't..."

"Robert!"

"Lord Grantham?"

"Oh God! I can feel it..."

"Cora!"

"One more push...oh, perfect. You have a girl, Lady Grantham."

"Oh my...come to Mama..."

"Oh Cora."

"I'll let the nurse clean the child. Hang on...just need to cut...there. All done. Nurse?"

"Wait just a moment, please, Nurse. Robert?"

"Yes my darling?"

"Isn't she just so beautiful?"

"So beautiful."

"Robert?"

"Hmm?"

"I - I meant the baby."


	7. A Lock of Hair

The sunlight presses through the open windows; distracting and dazzling her. Glancing up, she sees the burning orb glittering in the sky and she sighs desperately, eager to be out in the heather. Rising to her feet, she abandons the letter and steps towards the window, lifting it and leaning on the sill. Warmth beats down upon the dark curls of her head, sending hot air through her body. In this moment she wishes to take a pair of scissors and chop it all off; perhaps she would be cooler then. But she has to remember the way he twirls a lock around his finger when they wake together. The way Baxter lovingly fingers the ebony waves as she folds it into a thick plait every night. The way it flies out behind her like a streaming curtain when she runs against the wind, feet slapping against the wet sand. The way that he buries his face in its heady scent, especially when he wants her to listen to him. The way it languidly falls over one shoulder, thick and full of life. She closes her eyes, relishing the shine on her curls.


	8. Virginal white

The breeze catches her hair and it blows out, a curtain of silken ebony. Stepping forward, she stares out over the aquatic depths towards the horizon, that boundless eternity that she will never reach. Her dress ebbs and flows, the soft material virginal white ; foreshadowing a day when she will have left this idyllic, rich in colour and vibrancy, and romantic life behind. A voice makes her turn and smiling, she takes the tea cup from her mother's hand; a delicate sip from the brim distilling her intimacy with the ocean. Sixteen is carefree enough to still be a child and to lie in the daisies, but her seventeenth is only a week, and it shall remind her of the constant push into adulthood, and into the arms of a man who shall determine her path through this life.  
She stands, still.


	9. Those Blue Pyjamas

He steps out of the bath and Carter wraps a towel around him. Shivering, he hurriedly dries himself and wraps a robe around his pale, goose-pimpled shoulders. Dismissing his manservant gratefully, he walks in through to his bedroom. Lying on the bed is his night pyjamas. His first, proper pair of blue, manly night robes. What days will come to pass, when a woman shall slip this shirt from his shoulders? What days will come to pass, that she will slide her fingers around his collar, whispering in his ear? What days will come to pass, when she shall hook her long slim hands under the waistband of these trousers, and let them fall; revealing what he is still coming to terms with? Since his sixteenth birthday, he has felt the pressure slowly spooned on; a sudden sharp breeze cooling his childish whims and playful ease. He knows that one day this estate will be his. That one day, in clothes just like the ones he is buttoning up now, he will be climbing into this bed – accompanied. Accompanied by a lifetime of duty. But, hopefully, accompanied as well by _love_.


	10. First Light

_We had the first time, now we have the next morning._

* * *

Her fingers meet his own under the bedclothes and she sighs, a soft, breathy sigh that reverberates through the bed. Turning, she takes his hand and presses it to her lips. Daylight streams in the window, filtering through the billowing curtains. Pressing a hand to the small of her back, he pulls her in and kisses her softly, as if kissing a cut glass cup that may shatter any moment. She wraps herself around him, cocooning their momentary bliss and relishes him; tasting him fresh and cool on her tongue; feeling his hand touch her pale skin for the second, sweet time. They kiss again, passionately and fervently, making the most of their marital situation in society. A whisper drifts through their passion; unified and felt by both with desperation and hope that one day it will be true:  
"I love you."


	11. A Grain of Sand, A Cascade of Salt

She smiles. Radiance streams from her eyes and her lips curve up her cheeks. Reaching down, she takes up her skirts and runs with gay abandon towards the sea edge, after her small daughter, who is shrieking excitedly. At the sight of the two beautiful women in his life acting with such joy and frivolity, Robert capitulates to chaos and dashes after them, allowing the hem of his trousers to soak in the salty waves. Grasping his daughter lightly beneath her armpits he picks her up and throws her into the air; a scream of delight mingled with fear fills the air. Seconds later she comes crashing down into the choppy water. Time stills and they exchange a quick, worried glance. Then, like a cork, she bobs up, laughing, spraying salt, cheering for more.

They spend an hour in the ocean, playing and smiling and laughing.

"Cora?" He turns to her, propping himself up on his elbows. She rolls over, and seeing his face, her eyes widen with worry. "Robert, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. In fact, the opposite. I wanted to say...I love you."

"I know you do, my darling –"

"No, I do, I love you, and I believe it is not incompatible with the office of a gentleman to state the perfectly obvious. I have always loved you."

"Robert, wha – "

"I have loved you since the moment you caught my eye and made me blink desperately for fear I was dreaming."

"Oh Robert." She reaches up, stroking his cheek, and letting her hand fall onto the covers. Neither have fallen asleep yet, the house cloaked in silence. "I love you, too."

He kisses her, sweet and salty. Her eyes snap up to his own and she wells up with the sight of his brimming lids, ready to fall in a cascade of emotion. Not unlike the waves of the ocean, forever falling, yet forever buoying them, carrying the lovers to the shores of contentment.


	12. The Unmistakeable Mark of Tension

His cold, dismissive air attracts her attention and she glances between the couple, panic rising in her chest. "...I wanted to snatch them from her throat!" Again, another futile attempt at conversation. He turns away, his face set into an expressionless state. But Violet knows her son and she understands that he is asserting his strong position. He is pushing aside hurt and assuming the role of a host. She knows, from years gone by, that he has suffered a blow to his ego and to his marital bed, and his expression of blank uncommunicative coldness is his way of shutting himself out of the world. She looks at Cora. Her eyes brim with desperate despair and she turns, attempts to reconcile what they once had - yet again - hopeless.


	13. Train tracks

The train speeds along; the countryside rushing past in a blur. The air of the car is muggy and stale; leaning over he pushes down the window, allowing the cool mid-morning air to filter in. Settling back into his seat he looks down at his sleeping wife. Curls of ebony silk have escaped neatly from her intricate updo and fall gracefully about her shoulders, and her face is calm, serene, lost in the comfort of her dreams. She is wearing a cream cape jacket over a pale green dress that reaches to mid-calf, and her brown lace up ankle boots – bought brand new for the trip – are crossed; her head lolling against himself. He smiles and reaching down brushes the hair out of her eyes. Upon the news of their reconciled relationship after the debacle with Bricker, in a strangely over-excited and intimate manner, Mary and Edith planned for their parents a week's holiday in London. A relationship that yet only weeks ago Robert thought was in chance of cracking at the seams has softened and brought back that strangely desperate and keen bond that no-one can understand. At the prospect of having a week to remind them of their feelings for each other, the couple jumped at the chance to spend some time alone. Robert, looking into her calm features, cannot understand her belief that he is still angry at the complex issues rising from the last weeks – far from it. In truth, he is sorry to have taken so long to understand that she wants to be listened to, and he is irritated at his self-involvement and refusal of her opinions in so many matters. Judgement and worry aside, he loves her and, as he leans down and kisses her warm forehead, he knows that he is happy for this love – this undying, enduring love that has pushed down so many barriers to reach where they are now – finally contented.


	14. The Cold Light of Morning

_This continues from The Unmistakeable Mark of Tension._

* * *

The slip of the shrug to the seat of the sofa forces a sigh from his lips; his arms sharply lifting the paper a little higher. She murmurs beneath her breath, but he knows what she spoke of. He knows that she recognises his impatience with her sensitivity to temperature, and yet it seems to be her full time occupation today to constantly pester him with her covering and uncovering of her shoulders. Not such for the irritating repetition of the habit, but for the revealing of her sleeveless and low necked top that leaves a little too much to the imagination for his liking. He knows she is attempting to engage him in conversation, especially since they haven't exchanged a civil word for three days now. The truth is, he is not letting her talk in an intimate manner for fear of breaking down and capitulating to her beauty and sweet nature, and also he has not fully recovered from _that night_...she does not seem to recognise the jarring effect of seeing another man in their bedroom has had on him. He shuffles in his seat and glances up warily. Tears fill her eyes and she stands, hurrying past him and out the door, even before he can attempt to make amends for his cold behaviour. He lowers his paper. She's left the shrug behind.


	15. Caught in the Act

A gasp, a sigh. She startles and turns, glancing hurriedly around in the dimly lit corridor. Gathering the dresses in her arms she sinks into the protective clasp of the curtains and she waits, her breath murmur of desperate hope reaches her eardrums and she closes her eyes, wishing herself anywhere but here; anywhere as to alleviate her growing discomfort and embarrassment. _Please leave. Please continue your orgastic ministrations in your bedchamber._ But, no. They drift to the place she occupied only minutes before; and she has to stifle a horror struck gasp. Lord and Lady Grantham, half clothed in their scarcely-warm night garments clutch and tug at one another, passion and keenness hovering like a cloud of fog over their heads. Pressing herself further into the corner, she watches, both in terror, humiliation and fascination as His Lordship proceeds to slip a hand under Her Ladyship's nightgown; administering a soft rhythmic pattern over the older woman's breast, in accordance with his lingering mouth on hers. Then, a duck of her head and she leans in, whispering lustfully.

"Why don't we continue this in my bedroom, Robert?"

He sweeps her away, a protective arm around her waist, unaware of the maid, scurrying away in amazement and relief. As the young girl turns briefly, the woman catches her eye. Her lid flickers down and back, a smile spreading secretly across her face. Then she turns back, as though nothing ever transpired between them.


	16. On Waking Alone

_Thank you so much for your lovely comments and messages, they mean so much to me and this series is benefited all the more by their driving force_ _._

* * *

The house is cloaked in silence and hope. Hope that tints every conversation and gazes through every window. Hope that perforates every mind, unable to become tangible until the ultimatum that never arrives in the newspaper delivered on her breakfast tray. She pushes back her lids; reluctant and weary, gazing at the ceiling. The blank space confronts her, a constant reminder of her loneliness. Her incapability to escape this cyclical routine. Get up, dress, eat, manage the books, talk to tenants, eat, go for walk - alone, rest, dress, eat, sleep. It has begun to become a permanent and she has woken up in a similar fashion every morning for more than a week now - reluctant to perform such mundane, dull actions that will most likely determine the rest of these years without him.


	17. First Impressions of an Eligible Lady

The warm sun that presses down on his head allows him to push the brim of his hat further over his face; shielding the gleaming summer morning. The day's paper rustles in his grip, as he turns a corner in the park, and seats himself on a bench overlooking a flower garden. Yet, his attention, rather than being drawn to the news, is diverted onto a much more pressing topic that has stayed with him since last night. Cora Levinson, the eligible American heiress, new to the London season, but not to the decadent lifestyle those of their calibre live. He has to smile as he recalls her entrance to the ballroom the night before; a beautiful whirlwind of opulent red; a vision in a short sleeved dress; burgundy in the dark, scarlet in the light... Her hair, swept back into a simple plait that wound around the crown of her head, cascading curls falling about her face gracefully and carefully. Her ivory, soft, perfect complexion; contrasting with the darkness of her dress. Her eyes; glistening orbs of oceanic blue, captivating every breathing body across the glossy dance floor of claustrophobic euphoria. He recalls vividly his anticipation and eagerness to make the acquaintance of this fabulous woman; much to the chagrin and disdain of his mother. Indeed, Miss Levinson was all too obliging to partner him, despite his incredulity. As he remembers their intertwined bodies in lyrical motion, smiling and happy to have the chance to share that single, perfect moment, he smiles now to himself; lost in his adulatory and impressed perception of Cora Levinson.

"Lord Downton?"


	18. Dazzling

As hard as she tries, every dress feels wrong. As Baxter helps her into a chocolate silk piece, she emits a sigh of frustration and desperation. Far from lacking appropriate clothing, she is concerned over her appearance - how it shall affect the large party's perception of her, and of course, how it shall affect Robert. For the majority of the thirty five years they have been together, she has managed to impress him with her extensive array of classy and flattering garments; not intending to stop at any time soon. But tonight, she cannot believe any of her lovely dresses will impress, or indeed, entice him.

"Milady?"

"Hmm?"

"There's another one..." Baxter pulls a last dress out of the wardrobe and Cora gasps, touching a hand to her mouth. It is a scarlet red velvet number, with the sleeves stopping half way down her lower arms and falling in thin matching chiffon. She eagerly allows Baxter to help her into it, looking intently at the detail in the mirror whilst sharing a smile with her maid. The same decoration falls away from the cinched in waist and also on the hem, drawing attention to the lovely black ankle heels that she bought only two weeks back. Turning, Baxter places a simple string of black beads around her neck and passes her a pair of simple black pendant earrings that she slips in, years of practise over in a second. As she checks herself in the mirror again, pulling on her gloves, she has to admit to herself - the dress is equally as ravishing and impressive as the dress she wore the first time she met Robert. In fact -

"It is the same colour as the dress you wore when you first met me. You look beautiful, Cora."

She feels her cheeks flame and she ducks her head a little, almost ashamed at her pride in the beautiful garment. "Thank you, Robert."

He lean in and kisses her softly, lingering for a moment longer. Then low in her ear, he whispers:

"When I was a young man, I'd never thought I would see a woman as dazzlingly and enticing as you."


	19. Dust

_This is a modern piece but it follows the original storyline_.

* * *

Flicking the switch, she steps into the flat. Little has changed since footsteps last touched these floorboards; little different but for the dust that has settled in the nooks and on the shelves. Walking across the the mantelpiece, she reaches out, running a hand across the wood. Bringing it away, she observes the grey particles that drift to the worn down carpet, like the pieces of her old life, worn away and disintegrated. Little more than mere memory.

As she feels her eyes brim, her bag vibrates. Reaching inside she removes her iPhone, lit up with a message that makes her swipe across the screen a little faster than usual.

Robert (11.32): _Just making sure you are okay for meeting at 12. I miss you more with every second. Will be wonderful to catch up again._

She feels the tears rush hot and fast over her cheeks now and she swallows a lump in her throat. Yet, as desperate as she is to see him, she can do little more than tap out an emotionless answer, devoid of her need to feel him against her once more.

Cora (11.34): _In old flat. Fine for 12. See you soon._

As she replaces her phone, she brushes the trails of residue water from the skin beneath her lids away, stepping away from the mantle and surveying the room once more. The last time she saw this her face was pink with anger and disappointment and she clutched carryalls in her hands, banging her hip impatiently against the door that opens into the flat. If she closes her eyes tight enough, she can hear the shouted words, the tense atmosphere that radiated throughout the modern, airy flat in the centre of London.

"How can you believe I would ignore this?! That I would walk away and not realise that you two - ! That - that you - you - _sold_ me - to - to a _penniless_ son - of an Earl! Ha! What a joke! Well, consider me _out_ of this arrangement!" She finally realised it opened the other way and yanked it open with an index finger curled around the doorknob, her lips set. Not unlike now. But now, she has everything and nothing to lose, for there is no tension beween them. Only pain. Pain that she will never be good enough.

The door slams. Her footsteps slowly fade to quiet, leaving the place in a contented slumber. Little has changed. A small path of clean wood signifies there was anyone here at all. The invisible clock ticks. Time does not exist here anymore. Not anymore.


	20. The Space Inside Her

"Mama!" She puts her weight onto her shoulder and bursts out into the sunshine, her ebony hair cascading over her shoulders in a halo of chaos. The day is clear, the skies open and reminiscent of a hot August morning; her feet hit the grass in desperation. As she catches sight of her mother, her lips part to shout her name again but then she stops, her childlike mind stilling despite her eagerness. The woman stands by the path, her head ducked in sorrow, her shoulders drooping and her face pale; tears slide down her cheeks fast and furious. Her father stands before her, attempting to console her yet to little effect. He slides his hands over her own and raises then to his lips, and it is then that Mary sees it. The tears in his own eyes. It frightens and confuses her, as she watches their joined hands shaking and the synchronised rivulets of pure starlight stream down their cheeks in unnerving harmony. Her mother speaks in a cracked whisper. She then hears her father's voice, low and husky, warding off another bout of tears.

"We will get through this. We will get through this together. You can do it. You can do - "

He crumples and the two capitulate to one another, enfolding their bodies until they are indistinguishable from one another. The manner of their shaking frames turns Mary back around in sympathetic, though childish, understanding, running with reckless abandon back to the house.

"Robert...why does it hurt so much?"

"We will get through this. We will get through this together. You can do it. You can do - " He crumples and falls into her, and she clutches on for dear life, letting the tears fall in uncontrollable pain. As she leans on his shoulder, she releases a hand and places it on her empty stomach. The flat, unswollen, empty space that lies heavily on her mind day and night.


	21. White Noise

_Prompt from Countess of Cobert for what happens in Series 4, Episode 2 when Robert calls Cora into the library._

* * *

"Cora?" He steps out, speaking directly to her. She turns, her face a mask of horror and confusion. "Could I ask you something?"

She follows him inside, stunned and attempting to control her puzzlement that threatens to overwhelm her. As he turns from the desk, though, he asks a question he never planned on asking. "Are you quite well, Cora?"

"I - I..." She trails off, aghast and flustered, perhaps in need of a breath to take but dizziness overcomes her and she clasps the sofa head, feeling her body sink with the weight of the blow.

"Cora!" He rushes to her side and takes her hand. "What is wrong?" She opens her mouth but the words do not come, her brain a mess of confusion. Why would Anna of all people...

"Oh..." She sits quickly and he crouches by her side, squeezing her palm. "Robert... Do you ever wish that life could be easier if we were not so well thought of?" His brow creases. "Perhaps, we could be happier if we had only each other to worry about? Things like burnt clothes and ladies maids a thing of little importance..."

"Cora, what has brought this on?"

"Do you love me, Robert?" He startles at this confrontational proclamation, tempted to deliver a sharp, puzzled response - how could she doubt? - but her pale complexion persuades him otherwise. "Cora, how could you ever doubt that?" A soft kiss closes the topic, yet as he stands, muttering his excuses low into her ear, she feels no less comforted or assuaged; only the confusion is left, buzzing high pitched in her ear.


	22. Bound With Garlands

_Thank you so much for all your wonderful and inspiring comments and for supporting this series. Another shall be out forthwith about their younger years, so do not despair._

* * *

Her eyes raise from her plate, risking a glance. His gaze meets hers instantly. A blush that starts in her breast rises to heat her cheeks and she duck her head briefly. Her fingers stutter over the cutlery, attracting the attention of her eldest whose brows rise in surprise. She opens her mouth to speak but resists when she sees the sparkle in her mother's look. A brief casting glance across the table naïvely confirms the object of her mother's hot face. Her father smiles secretively, hiding his expression by tucking his chin into his chest. Cora lifts a hand and slips it around the back of her neck; bringing it away, the sweat glistens on the palm of her hand. The tension could be cut with a butter knife. The final scrape against the plates signifies the end of the meal and the women push back their seats; as if the world has been put on fast-forward. He looks. She returns it, heavy with need. A sweeping gesture and he follows his wife from the room, as silent and unseen as a feather on water. The dark corridors mask their intent, burrowed deep within the crevices of long dead rituals that bound lovelorn couplings inside their chambers. Robert's footsteps match hers, a rhythm shared, beating in time. He grasps her wrist and she gasps, her back hitting the wall with a resounding silence. Their lips meet and they sigh, a long desperation satisfied; their thirst satiated. His hands find her waist, circle and cup her soft swells. Her arms clasp his neck, bending him keenly forward. A rush of hot air passes between the couple and they moan, skin on skin, lip to lip, eyes closed in hopeless wonder. She cries out, a lark in distress, a robin breasted of red. Her core heats, pulling him against her in agonising despair, a leg traps his waist. The rustle and tear of linen and silk, the pop of the buttons that restrict their naked forms. He presses forward, urging her open, breaking down her buttresses. A silent scream emanates from her depths and they moan, bound with the rosy drips of life, bound with garlands that crown their heightened climax.


	23. Author's Note

**Author's Note** **:**

After serious reflection, I have decided to develop this into something bigger! I know I ended this series in quite a passionate way and it couldn't really be developed further, but I have made myself a proposition. The series as a whole shall be split into parts, each focusing on different aspects of Robert and Cora Crawley's lives; the main body of their time together, childhood, when they first met and as a young couple, as elderly people and before and after their births and deaths. These, undoubtedly, shall overlap and I will have a fun time attempting to haul everything into a reasonable shape worth reading, but I hope I have your support in this decision. I decided, when thinking about my writing, that I do not want to commit myself to a long novel-length story - that is not my style - and I want to spend more time with my family and on my painting this summer. Therefore, I concluded that this series would be the best thing for me - I won't be chained to my computer as I was when I first encountered Fanfiction and became addicted to it - and I can write whenever, when inspiration comes - on the beach, on the train, holidaying...

Your comments mean everything to me, I always feel so happy to see that I have such gorgeous, kind followers. You know who you are: Countess of Cobert, Downtonix, Countess Cora... Your words make my whole day, and I shall feel contented knowing I don't have that fear of publishing something new entirely, I have you beautiful people who will always stay with this series.

Best wishes to you all, and I hope you enjoy this extension of my favourite published piece so far!

-The Countess And The English Lord. Xxx


	24. For The Beauty of Simplicity

**PART TWO**

The catch of an eye; a wish for to greet and wave in bliss

A sigh that escapes from innocent lips

Together held in awestruck wonder

Cast aside and tossed asunder

The slap and tap beneath their feet

The joy aroused when they meet

Her eyes cloud with the tease of romance

His eyes mist over; he takes a chance.


	25. The Little Prince and His Fate

"You will be the owner of this house one day. You shall be the King of all of Downton, my little Prince. You shall grow to be a good, prosperous man; and no harm shall ever come to you. I can promise you that."

The words ring in his head as he lies in his cot, staring at the ceiling. How can he be King of such a big place as Downton Abbey? How can he be expected to rule with such surety? Lifting a hand, he brushes the hair from his forehead that has fallen there carelessly. _I wonder if it will be exciting, being a King?_ The night sky looks over the shrouded room, enclosing the small boy, who lies in pale trepidation. The prospect of such a task appears onerous and intimidating for Robert Crawley. _How can I rule yet? Nine is hardly the right age!_ Rolling over he faces the wall, bringing his knees to his chest. Everything has been so ordinary until now for him, the joys of childhood artfully concealing the truths of adulthood and the responsibility that is expected of him. Nothing could ever prepare him for the fear he cannot shake at having to comprehend all the complex tasks his father undertakes; nothing could prepare him for the worried nights, lying awake in frustration and terror.

And nothing could ever prepare him for the day his father tells him of the opposite gender; a paradox to decipher for such a young man. At the ripe age of twelve, Patrick lies down for him the basics of what will happen when Robert shall couple with a "Lady". This information awes and terrifies him, almost driving the innocent child to hysteria.

But, truly, on his first observation of Cora Levinson, all those memories of embarrassed interest flooded into his mind. All those stories his father ever told him...all those fantasies - immediately disappeared and dissipated into fragments that floated on the evening breeze.

He knew. He knew she was the one.


	26. Leaves of Rampion

Like Rapunzel in her ivory tower, she threw her hair from the spires for him to catch and for him to climb.

Blinded by the thorns that pierced his title and his ego, his eyes turned towards the earth, ignoring the cascading curls that lay at his feet.

Hidden by her elders and constrictors, witches and conjurors, she was held inside her tower.

The witch bode her time, working away at the innocent, frail girl, small demeaning comments that slipped into her heart shattered her dreams and hopes.

The prince rode poorly, his horse weak; its lame foot having been unattended to for some time.

Tears filled his eyes; for fear of refusal, lack of courage being his downfall in reality.

Sweet singing permeated his head and the horse reared, its eyes wide in alarm.

"Let down your hair; so I may climb the golden stair."

Their hands met in joyous harmony and they smiled through their tears; years of pain and distance far behind them as they rode away; the sunset closing over them; perhaps as though they never existed.

Perhaps only in fairytales and rhymes, myth and bedtime stories whispered under the murmur of breath.

A hush, a reminder it was all a story. Just a story.

Perhaps they lived.

Perhaps not.


	27. All The Attention On The Angel

"Rosamund..."

She turns, glass in hand, glancing speculatively and with a raised brow at her brother. "Yes?"

"Who is that girl?" He nods his head in the direction of the beauty that has just whirled into the room. Her hair tumbles down over her shoulders, the front pieces pulled back into a twist at the back of her head; her dress is of pure starlight, matching the white ribbon that winds down past her shoulders around the twist; her shoes are moss green, and her gloves are olive green, accentuating the startling blue shade of her eyes. He cannot pull his gaze away.

"That is Cora Levinson, daughter to Martha and Isidore Levinso. American. As if the name doesn't already suggest so."

He attempts to drag his eyes from this perfect countenance and fails. His lips stutter over his words and his face blushes pure scarlet.

"Robert, what has you so transfixed?" Their mother descends, probing and prodding. Yet all the young man can do is stare. Stare and stare at this angelic, wondrous form that exudes ease and elegance.


	28. The Long Awaited Journey

"Mother, how will I know what to do?"

Martha glances at her daughter, whose eyes fix hers in nervous excitement. Her wishes for her daughters success in marriage have grown more frequent and more alarming over the past months. The poor innocent girl! She smiles and brushes a curl from Cora Bora's forehead, then chuckles to herself as she recalls the derivation of this nickname - a childish whim of the little darling to add rhyme to her short forename, something that has never failed to amuse herself and Isidore.

"A woman's instinct always wins in the end. Remember that, my darling, and you will do well. I have always tried to bring you up as sure of yourself as you can be, and it shall pay off now, Cora Bora."

Cora chuckles at the reference; switching to her mother's side and leaning her head on the thin, ageing shoulder. "Am I sure of myself, Mother?"

"Only you can answer that, my dearest one."

She glances up at her mother and they share a smile. Martha kisses the top of her head, lingering, making the most of this small, precious moment that is only one minute in the midst of a life that constantly races ahead of them.

"Here we are, my lady. Downton Abbey."


	29. A Surprise

A/N: This is just a shorty, but I thought I would update just to let you know I haven't disappeared, I've just had a lot on! Anyway, this is a modern piece but set about 1982 ish. So not _completely_ modern but near enough. All dialogue.  
I will probably update every week or two, but don't go away because this series is far from finished!

* * *

"Keep your eyes closed!"

"They are closed!"

"You're not peeking?"

"Robert, what do you take me for? Of course not!"

"Hang on, hang on..."

"What are you doing, you nutter?"

"Ta da!"

"Ro – oh! Good Lord."

"Well?"

"It's, uh, it's..."

"It's what?"

"It's..."

"Cora. Tell me the truth. You hate it."

"No. No, I don't. It's beautiful. Just a shock, that's all."

"Play something for me?"

"I haven't got anything to sit on."

"Oh – here's the stool."

"Ah...okay. What shall I play?"

"If You Were The Only Girl In The World?"

"That's ancient! Anyway, it's a man's song!"

"Doesn't matter, as long as it is important to us. Please?"

"Oh, alright, just for you."

"One, two, three- "

"If you were the only _boy_ in the world..."


	30. How The Time Flies

_I have to apologise for not updating for so long, but I have been otherwise engaged. However, I have a few more in the offing, and I thought I would just publish_ one _for now. This piece does cross into the next theme – old age (and birth). If there are any questions you want to ask me, just PM me. Hope you enjoy this._

* * *

She smells the rain before she feels it touch her skin. The dress falls ostentatiously below her shoulders, revealing the pearly cream of her neck; her hand rests on the material as if poised for covering herself once more and perhaps retaining some dignity, in the eyes of Violet Crawley whose eyes cast a shrewd gaze over her daughter-in-law's appearance. The gravel turns to sand under their feet, the bricks to clay. How many hours, minutes, seconds pass they have no awareness of. They can only stand, waiting, watching. It has crossed Violet's mind that the young woman is in anguish and she might require comfort; yet she feels herself to be an unworthy producer of pity for the twenty year old, her sharp manner far too condescending to be kind. Some grain of desperation jumps inside her and she reaches out, despite herself, patting Cora's arm.

"Come, my dear. Let us avoid catching our deaths."

"He said he'd be here by now. He said he would."

"My dear, the journey is an arduous one. Nothing is certain."

"He said he would be here." Her eyes are wide and she rocks back and forth on her toes. Violet feels a jab of fear in her gut and she clasps the girl's hand, squeezing it tight.

"Cora?"

"He said," she whispers. "He said."

"Now my dear, there is no need to get worked up - "

"He _said_. He _said_. He _told me_ he would _be here_." Her strained voice stretches out in an urgent whine and Violet has to bring herself to not visibly shake her. How can she be so ridiculously embarrassing? Yet she maintains her composure and gazes primly on, attempting to ignore the whimpers and soft cries of the American.

Futile. The small, pathetic sounds rouse her sympathy and she takes Cora into her arms, patting her exposed shoulder ineffectually. "There, there my dear, he shall be here soon. He is most likely caught up, what with the abrupt change in weather."

Cora stifles another whimper and leans her head onto Violet's shoulder. Her skin, pale under the stark morning light, crinkles like a brown paper bag. The crows feet, as if kissed by starlight, brush across the comers of her eyes. Mary wraps an arm around her mother's waist, gently tugging up the fallen sleeves of Cora's fading dress. "Mama."

"Yes, Violet?"

"We should go in, we'll catch our deaths. He'll be here soon. He'll be here soon."

The two turn and with the umbrella held high above her mother's head to shelter her from the assault of the rain, Mary guides her mother inside, Cora's small, aged feet shuffling in an agonisingly slow pace.


	31. Throw The Water on the Fire

A soft sigh will escape her mouth

Blown from that reedy cord of sound that reverberates in her throat

Her hand will shake and curl with trepidation in painstaken force

That fire that burns in her stomach shall never fade

That tide shall leave its mark

He can console, stroke, please her

In desperate hope wherein the trouble brims

Pale, black, burnt by the scorched metal

Dashed all chances of recovery

Mindful, careful, tentative

He lays a hand upon her cheek

A cat, she purrs and licks, contented

The burning now a vague memory

And they can clasp their fingers, entwine their fate.

 _Short part, I know, but hopefully the next part will be longer - if I decide what theme to do! Thank you so much for all you reviews and favourites/follows, they mean so much to me._


	32. Rosa

A/N: This section centres on letterwriting, and the themes may vary but the main gist wil be birth, death and marriage.

 **PART 3: LETTERS**

* * *

Dearest Rosa,

To describe the joy I cannot shake off would be to cast off the unique feeling that I never wish to lose. There are no words for this utter bliss that encapsulates my every pore. There is no way that I can write the events of the past three days. In my fear, I never imagined the purity and the perfect nature of the act in light of the complex, painful hurry that hurled me towards the road of motherhood that I now embrace with admiration. The sight of the dark hair crowning between my legs was enough to fill me to the brim with pure ecstasy and delight. Her face is puckered, soft; her eyes sapphire and glistening like the shining sea. Her hands reach in curiosity and eagerness towards my face and she tugs at the tendrils that escape from the hair I find myself reluctant to wash for fear of losing her scent that lingers so dearly. She smiles, my dear, she smiles. In the moment she was placed in my arms, it was as if she said "I am here."  
How to describe the joy! She is my day and night, she fills me with delight, she provides so much innocent enjoyment. I wonder, Rosa, if she knows the depth of her importance. If she knows my eyes brim with tears every time I gaze into her perfect, sweet face. If she knows that life after these first days cannot convey the same beauty and innocence. I wish to call her Cora. Cora Roseanna, if you permit me so. Maiden, and flower of grace, just like you my darling friend. She will be a beauty, Rosa, she will turn many a head. I do not doubt she will have a good life. I only wish my own could have been permeated with this happiness I have waited so long for. Thank God it is finally here. May He ensure she never loses heart in it. And may her days be as prosperous and as full as the love I feel for her.

Martha


	33. Ending Note

Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed this Fanfiction. It has made me so happy receiving all your lovely comments and I have enjoyed writing everything in this compilation and on the site as a whole. I have decided to leave the site - I know, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you - as I wish to pursue an extremely focused career in art and I feel it is the right time as I have been on here a year and I believe I shall need to focus fully on my studies from this time onward. I hope you understand. I hope all of you continue to blossom and grow in your fantastic writing abilities and I hope you have beautiful, prosperous futures. Cheesy, I know, but that's how I feel. I shall leave my stories on here, but I will disable my alerts and my PM function as of the end of the month, or as soon as I have finished reading the multi-chapters that currently have a few chapters left. Thank you again for everything.

TheCountessAndTheEnglishLord xxx


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